If I Should Fall From Grace
by Crunch
Summary: (was I've stood here before) Would you risk everything to change one moment? Would you risk the life you had to change a lifetime? Would you die for the chance to try? *Crunch's new epic* R/R!
1. 1

I've stood here before~ By Crunch  
  
Alright kiddies, bare with me, because this is WAY different then anything I've tried before. Think of it as a Newsies sequel, one hundred years in the making. It's set in the present. . . sort of. If it works out, well, it should be pretty friggin cool. But we'll see, won't we? Enjoy!  
  
Oh yes, and I've decided to dedicate it to the goils of the NJL (just because I CAN~ MUA HA HA HA *cough*) and because you guys rock the kielbasa.  
  
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~ What might have been, had a different path been taken, had a different choice been made, had life been different. . .  
  
~*~ Manhattan - 1999 ~*~  
  
The glittery lights of Broadway, liquid and runny through the rain-streaked windows, tumbled in neon pink and sparkling green rivulets across the tabletop of the back booth in Maraschino's. Ruden Mazzola cupped a hand around his unlit cigar, struck a match, and watched it burn down to its roots before deftly flicking it to the ashtray. All the while, the boy on the bench across from him smiled a dazzling, square-jawed smile, which only intensified his own lousy mood. He didn't see why anyone in the God forsaken world would be happy today, of all days. And a miserable day it was- the sky outside hung white and rainy, and the deep rumbling breath of the wind, as it scuttled stray newspapers, beer cans and cardboard box tumbleweeds across the pavement, only reminded Ruden of the world he'd have to face beyond the revolving diner doors. And still the square-jawed boy smiled.  
  
"If ya gonna sit there grinnin' like a Jackass all day, jus' make like yer mudder and blow, will ya Ryder? You're spoilin' da taste a me Rigatoni."  
  
Ryder shrugged, unwilling to be dampened. "No can do, Rudy. Jus' da sight a your pretty face an' cheerful dispahsition is enough ta make me smile."  
  
"Eh, shove it." Ruden turned his gaze back to the water smeared window, briefly meeting his own mahogany eyes in the glass, before looking away. "What're you so happy about anyhow? S'not like we'se raking in money at da club. Don't nobody even listen to jazz no more."  
  
Ryder shrugged again as he fondly petted the leather guitar case plopped on the bench besides him. "Ah, well, I aint gonna be playin' da Blues Club forever."  
  
"Oh, dat's right. Tell me again how youse gonna bust out of the gutters an' make ya fortune as da nex' big thing, Mr. Sinatra?"  
  
Ryder tossed down a crumpled wad of bills from the depths of his jacket pockets and stood, the guitar slung across his shoulder and the grin still on his handsome young face. "Ya never know, Rudy. Ya just' never know what's waiting fah youse." He tipped his baseball cap and strolled towards the glass revolving doors. As Ruden shoveled a vengeful bite of pasta, he traced his friend's path across the tiled floors of Maraschino's. Ryder paused to make small talk with a perky young waitress, probably another model-hopeful, then knocked strait into a wizened and white haired old man trying to shuffle around him. His jaw dropped in shock, a stunned look in his pretty brown eyes, before he muttered his apologies.  
  
"R-real sorry, Sir."  
  
The boy flushed, and Ruden swallowed a laugh as he turned back to his dinner. His friend, the ladies man. Ryder would never stop dreaming, and for that, Ruden envied and pitied him. Still fighting a chuckle, he jumped a mile at the hiss of a quivering voice by his ear.  
  
"I've seen you before, you know."  
  
Startled, he turned to see the white haired old man, now grimacing as he lowered his sharp, arthritic bottom into the seat beside Ruden. The boy puffed on his cigar and shot a nervous glance around the diner- he doubted the old crackpot would pull a gun on him, but this WAS New York, and one just never could tell. . . But after a moment passed and he still wasn't staring down the barrel of a pistol, he eyed the stranger at his side.  
  
"Come again?"  
  
"I said I've seen you before, boy. Don't suppose you remember me, eh?"  
  
"Do you know me?"  
  
The man's weathered old face cracked a splintery smile. "Better than you know yourself."  
  
Ruden puffed reflectively as he scanned the dusty recesses and back catalogues of his memories for the face in front of him. Could the man be a long lost relative? Impossible. There were no relatives- if there had been, he wouldn't have ended up in the filthy, rented squalor of his one- room hovel on the swampy third floor of the YMCA after the accident. The accident. . . had the old man been one of the countless lawyers, tax collectors and inspectors or social workers that had swarmed in the weeks following the funerals? He doubted it; none of the bloodsuckers, as he'd fondly come to call them, had been informed of his exodus to Manhattan, and they were unlikely to be searching after all this time. But now the man was speaking once more, providing a welcome escape from memory lane.  
  
"I know why you're here. . . what name do you go by now a days, kid?"  
  
Shocked by the strangeness of the man's question, it never occurred to him that he shouldn't answer. "Ruden."  
  
"Ah. Odd name you got there, boy, but I guess it's not the oddest, is it?" The elderly man's eyes twinkled, as if this were a private joke. "Ruden, then. What do you think about death, Ruden?"  
  
Ruden cracked a smile and a joke, as he did whenever he was nervous. "Well, I t'ink it happens ta da best of us."  
  
"That's good, boy, very good. I can see you haven't changed in the slightest." The man leaned forward, and Ruden kept still, mesmerized by the sorrow he saw in those watery gray eyes. "I know why you're empty. Why you're lost."  
  
"Is dat so. By all means, you gonna tell me why?"  
  
"Wouldn't you like me to? Better yet, I can show you." With a speed that didn't quite mesh with the man's long years and decrepit bones, he moved a wrinkled yellow hand to Ruden's shoulder, and before the boy could protest, the drizzly warmth of Marrachino's had melted away. The blood still pounding in his ears like African drums, he stood on the streets of New York- but not his New York. The street was ripped from the pages of one of those turn of the century, harlequin romance novels that lined the back shelves of the used bookstore on fifth and Kent. From the gritty cobblestones beneath his feet, strewn with porclein clumps of snow, to the star-dotted night sky, uncluttered with the harsh lights of billaboards and stadium lamps, to the quaint people in their mufflers and trenchcoats, hustling down the barren sidewalks. And something was off about it all- not just the fact that he'd lost his mind. There was something else, something he couldn't put his finger on. . . And then it hit Ruden like a sour punch to the stomach.  
  
The world was in black and white.  
  
Like a broken and grainy film reel, only he'd stepped through the movie screen and into the picture. He was himself, he knew that much- same small but sturdy figure, same slicked back bed of hair, same puppy brown eyes and lingering smirk on his boyish features, though his skin was now the color of weathered and wind-worn concrete. Ruden held out his palm and stared at the sight with his jaw on the floor. And just then, like the crackling, staticy soundtrack of an ancient movie on TMC, a filmy voice splintered the night air.  
  
". . . day at da tracks, Race?" Ruden looked up to see the young boy beside him. Small, with eyes as big as his own, and skin darker than the smoky gray of his own hand. This boy was black. Ruden had seen his share of African American or[hans, entrepreneurs and thugs wandering the streets he called home, but this one was different. This one was familiar. And he was speaking again. "Why ya lookin' at me like dat, Racetrack? Hah! Ya look like youse seen a ghos- "  
  
"You've seen it, then?" The pounding of those bloody African drums swallowed him once again, and a moment later, he was back in the diner, warm and dry and in living color. The old man leaned closer as he struggled to regain his breath. "Now you know."  
  
In the days that followed, Ruden would be sure of only one thing: that he should have left the diner. He would look back and know that he should have risen to his feet at that very moment, wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, tossed the old man aside and run from Maraschino's, leaving him with the bill and a heart attack. Later, he'd regret that he hadn't run.  
  
But Ruden didn't run, just stayed plastered to the sticky vinyl seat cushion, and the old man spoke. "A hundred years ago, ten boys stopped the world. They followed a leader, and they changed their lives. But then, something happened- a wrinkle in the plan. A tear. A mistake. Things that weren't meant to be. . . and they fell. Boy, did they fall."  
  
His mind reeling, the boy reached for some spark of understanding, some assurance that either this man was crazy, or at the very least, he himself wasn't. At last he found his voice. "Who- who are you?"  
  
The old man leaned in, his voice a dead whisper and his eyes sparkling with that secret joke. "I've seen you before." After a long moment, he drew backwards, and with the veins in his withered neck straining, he hauled his bent and crooked body to its feet. "Find the others. Rind the lost. Find the leader. You can change everything."  
  
"How?"  
  
"You'll know them. You're all connected- tangled. You'll know them, kid." The white haired man smiled his sorrowful smile, smacked his lips and turned to go. Ruden thought about following, then leaned back in his seat, his eyes swimming and his head buzzing.  
  
Two hours later, when the head Chef hollered a "Last call! Ten minutes to closing!", he sat there still, wishing like hell that he had run.  
  
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Well. . . . . confused? Overwhelmed? Disgusted? Hungry? REVIEW!!! 


	2. 2

If I should Fall From Grace~ by Crunch  
  
Keza~ mmm. . . kielbasa. . . not on Passover, though. *arg matzo* If you're unfamiliar with matzo- count your blessings. Ooh, sound effect- filled review! My fave-o-rite kind! Thanks so much- this chapter. . . not so cool, but trust, they should get much cooler, and soon. And while we're waiting for inspiration to re- strike, how about a "Gods" update, ey? *offers newsie bribes*  
  
Sparker~ Sparker! She-who-writes-Angie! *Dies of ego-inflation* Thanks so much, hope I live up to the expectations! *hands sparker chocolate newsie* See? See how good I treat my hungry reviewers?  
  
Dreamer~ Thanks muchly! Ah, yes, inspiration is a beautiful thing! Though my inspiration tank is running on fumes of late. . . oh, I'm not worried in the slightest! I'm sure it will be chalk-full of brilliant newsie goodness. And rest assured, it did make sence. I too speak the language of reviewer-ese.  
  
Shimmerwings~ GAH! It's my goddess-of-slashy-goodness idol Shimmerwings! Your review is met with much hardy revelry, so *nudge poke nudge* do it again! Feel free to keep me in line if I defile the fic to much, ey? Thanks again!  
  
Klover~ Tee hee- thanks muchly! I hope this chapter lives up to your word!  
  
Doll Face~ DOOOLLL FAAACEEE! Missed ya, kiddo! And btw, when ARE you going to write that newsie fic? Because you, m'dear, are an abso-friggen- lutely awesome writer, and I just can't wait to see what you could do with my boys! Ooh, alluring, you say? I don't believe I've ever written an alluring fic. . . yes. . . this could work. . . Hope ya like 'Part the second'!  
  
Plaid Pajamas~ Wow- this shout out is long over due. I would just like to say that YOU, my friend, rock the kielbasa. (My favorite cryptic compliment of the week) Seriously, you're reviews are appreciated beyond the telling of it, and I do not deserve such a great supporter (awesomeness, thy name is plaid pajamas) Really, thanks again for the inspiration- hope this doesn't dissapoint!  
  
Well, that's a bout it. oh yes, and forgive the Ricky Martin reference and passé slang . this is '99, after all. Oh, and, erm, say no to drugs.  
  
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~*~ Manhattan - 1999 ~*~  
  
Images, pieces of a broken and stitched together sequence in a movie reel, came drifting across the fog, like snippets from a drunken night come drifting back on a hung over morning with a jackhammer in your brain and your head in the bowl. People, places, voices-  
  
A painted white face topped with a curly red wig, a bathroom with a spigot pump for a sink, a crutch.  
  
His own voice in the midst of a rumble of boys- "It aint fair. We got no rights."  
  
A tiny Italian boy with a pack of cards in his back pocket and a cigar in his mouth, a statue, and a young man that he didn't know, but remembered in places deep down inside of him, with eyes to old for his face behind flattering glasses.  
  
And then, the too-wise boy opened his mouth, and in the voice of a hoary old man, whispered "Boots! Open your eyes."  
  
~*~  
  
Gideon Whitecotton jolted from his nightmares in a cold sweat, with the splintery old voice still ringing in his ears and his pulse racing. That damn dream again, it took him a moment of rapid breathing to realize. That's all it was. Just a bad dream. He glanced at the floor beneath him to reassure himself, and sighed with relief to see the gritty cobblestones of his nightmares replaced by the steely cool surface of the train bed.  
  
It must've been the drugs, he reasoned. That might even explain why he'd dreamed in black and white.  
  
And if it was drugs, than last night sure had been a whopper. He couldn't recall exactly where he'd been or what had taken place (not that that was unusual for mornings), but shot after shot of Captain Morgan's Whisky and loose girl named Evita sprang instantly to mind. How he'd gotten to his boxcar in one piece, he'd never know.  
  
Gideon allowed himself the tiniest smile as he glanced around his place of residence. He supposed he could always find a home in the dark and sleazy hovels that his drug ridden associates used to shoot up in without the cops on their asses- just move over a pile of glow sticks and pacifiers, and he'd have a nice, whisky scented place to lay his head. But he liked the train yards. Oh, not in the summer, when the guts of th train car he slept in were hot enough to boil and egg without fire, and not especially in the winter, when the cold struck with enough icy force to freeze the breath before it left your lungs.  
  
But times like this. . . Gideon scrambled slowly to his feet, still nursing a pounding head that he planned to cure with the first beer bottle he could rustle up. Beyond the open doors of his boxcar, the Manhattan Train Yard was just stretching and stirring itself into life in the honey colored light of dawn. A thin December breeze ruffled his patchy red 'Patriots' jacket, and with the dreams temporarily forgotten, his thoughts turned to the biggest problem in his life at the moment- breakfast.  
  
He jumped to the gravel of the train tracks below him with an "oof", lay there a moment, and then peeled himself from where he'd landed in a jumble on the ground. Come to think of it, that druggie hovel was looking mighty cozy right now. . .  
  
The first cramp hit him like a sour punch to the stomach.  
  
Still nursing a hang-over, he had to pause for a moment and analyze the pain. By now, he could identify stomach cramps like blue haired old ladies could identify each of their cats. This one was colder and clammier than a hunger cramp, and more wrenching then an I've-been-beaten-up cramp. . . all in all, this one definitely felt like an I-need-a-fix cramp. The second the thought occurred to him, there wasn't a doubt in his mind. He needed a hit like Ricky Martin needed a new tune. Rifling in his pockets, he came up with the last of his pizza delivery paycheck, and with a determined nod, headed towards the nearby heart of Manhattan with a new purpose.  
  
First drugs- and, if there was any money left over, then breakfast.  
  
But first and foremost- drugs.  
  
With his hood pulled tight over his afro-like crop of hair, bent so low at the middle that his face ran parallel to the chipped tar of the street sides, the first Gideon knew of his stalkers was a thick and menacing voice in his left ear.  
  
"Party a little to hard las' night, G?" Arms still wrapped around his throbbing middle, Gideon raised his head to see the two bearish figures blocking his path. If it wasn't his two favorite dealers.  
  
"'Ey, Mickey! S'up, Wendall. You guys. . . you guys aint carryin', are you?" Mickey, the older and fatter of the two brothers, smiled a wolvish smile and beat a meaty fist against his palm.  
  
"Why, Wendell, it seems our dark-skinned little friend heah don' remember da transgression he committed last night, do he?"  
  
"No, Mickey, it appeahs he don't."  
  
Inwardly, Gideon moaned. "Guys, I don' really remember much about last night, if ya know what I mean. So I's sorry for whatever I did. . ."  
  
"Sorry?" Mickey grabbed a fistful of his sweatshirt and pulled him so close, Gideon could barely stand against the stink of cigar smoke on his breath. "Sorry don't cut it, G. You see dis?" He lifted one smudged black L.L. Bean boot, and Gideon clamped his legs tighter in preparation for a kick, but it never landed. "You see dis stain? You t'rew up on me boot last night, you little turd."  
  
"Oh. Well, uh, if it's any consolation, I bet I t'rew up on a lot a t'ings last night."  
  
"You sure did. You t'rew up on me other boot, too." This time, the kick landed, sucking the wind from Gideon's lungs. As he sank to the sidewalk, gasping and gulping like a fish out of water, it struck him that today would've been better spent in bed.  
  
What with the jackhammer of a hang over, the gut wrenching heroin cramps, and the boot-shaped ache in his churning bowls, the next few minutes were just a bit hazy. He vaguely noticed the arrival of a third party- a saxophone case wielding, vertically challenged Italian.  
  
* A tiny Italian boy with a pack of cards in his back pocket and a cigar in his mouth. . .*  
  
Nah. Couldn't be. Chalk up another post-party hallucination for Gideon, the twelve year old drug-monger.  
  
"Put an egg in ya shoes and beat it, ya dumb asses." Through the red mists of pain, he caught a glimpse of the boys scattering like indignant pigeons. Must've been the saxophone. "Hey, kid, you alright?"  
  
Gideon looked up into the stunned face of his savior. "I seen you before, hasn't I?"  
  
For a moment, he thought the boy would run away, as the color drained from his doe-eyed face like beer down Gideon's throat, but after a tenuous few seconds, he nodded gravely. "Yeah. I think so." And right there on the sidewalk, in the midst of the pulsing, pushing, mid-morning crowds, with Gideon crouched at his feet, the boy named Ruden told him a story. . .  
  
~*~  
  
Gideon sighed and leaned back in his seat, unable to meet Ruden's eyes over his untouched bowl of oatmeal. The diner- one called Maraschinos, a place he'd never eaten in, but had often passed out behind- was surprisingly free of the expected breakfast crowd, but that suited the boy just fine. After all, no one wants a horde of people witnessing their fall from merely drug- crazed to certifiable insanity, and Gideon hadn't a doubt in his mind that he was now one flew over the cuckoo's nest.  
  
"And. . . and this ol' crack head, he said you could change stuff?"  
  
"Yup. That's what 'e said." Ruden stared glumly at his own bowl, also untouched.  
  
"Thought he was the only crazy one. But then you show up, lookin' just like ya did. . ."  
  
"In ya dreams?" Ruden dropped his eyes, suddenly fascinated by the swirls of grease painted across the cheap Formica tabletop. "So. . . so what do we do? Do we just ignore it? Do we. . . man, I need a reefer."  
  
Ruden snorted. "Can't help ya dere. Drugs stunt ya growth." Gideon cocked an eyebrow and sized up his friend, and both boys descended into high-strung giggles.  
  
"So what do you wanna do?"  
  
The Italian sobered up quickly. "I tell you what I want. I want my life back."  
  
"And I aint got nothin' in my life worth protecting. Hell, when you got nothin', you got nothin' to loose, right?" At that, the boys shared a bitter smile. God knows neither one had anything to loose. They hadn't for a long time.  
  
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Alright- this chapter was. . . m'eh. But I promise, next chapter is FUN. Atleast, it was fun to right. . . what with the gratuitous shirtless newsies and all (yum) so stick around. . . it may just be worth your while. Reviews? *Dangles shirtless newsies on fishing lines* 


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